#floral-flames

[of-wisteriakisses]

Cont. from x || @floral-flames

[ 📲  ─ My Second Son 🎨 ] Yes I am okay! Should of started with that

[ 📲  ─ My Second Son 🎨 ] I just forgot to bring those cookies you wanted

[ 📲  ─ My Second Son 🎨 ] Accidentally brought the muffins, OH and also I tripped today- might be a bit late

[ 📲  ─ My Second Son 🎨 ] I suppose that’s means I am not alright 🤔

[sasorikigai]

@floral-flames continued from here (x)

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || Hanzo’s gaze lingers on the crystalline horizon of Arctika, where jagged spires of ice clawed at the pale light, refracting it into a spectrum of quiet luminescence. The cold, which once would have felt like a prison upon his soul, now carried with it the weight of clarity - a clarity that had only come through years of ruin, regret, and the slow carving of understanding. He let his eyes drift over the stronghold, noting the sigils etched into the glacial walls, the symbols that once screamed subjugation, obedience, and the merciless rigor of the Lin Kuei. But now, under the prism of this fragile truce, under the reflection of Kuai Liang’s sincerity, they shimmered differently - less as markers of division, and more as beacons of alliance, as if each rune hummed in acknowledgment of unity rather than dominance.

“The ice… it speaks differently now,” Hanzo murmurs, his voice low, a hushed wind threading through the cavernous halls. “Once, each sigil reminded me of the countless nights of pursuit, of the blood between our clans, of vengeance that felt eternal. But now… I see purpose beneath the frozen stone. Not domination, not rivalry. But vigilance. Discipline. And… alliance.” He steps forward, boots crunching lightly on the frost, each footfall reverberating as though the very stronghold listened. “Arctika has always been a fortress. And yet, with your hand extended, Kuai Liang, it is no longer a prison… but a sanctuary for what must endure. For what must be defended.”

He pauses, letting the words settle, his amber eyes reflecting both the spires above and the Netherrealm’s ever-looming shadow beyond. The darkness of that realm, where revenants once walked side by side with nightmares, now gnaws at the edge of Earthrealm, swelling in power with each fleeting moment of human frailty. He could see its cold tendrils reaching outward, familiar yet ever alien, a threat that would consume any hesitation or discord between them.

“And yet,” he continues, tone softening, yet heavy with intent, “we have learned from the revenant’s path, from the suffering of our pasts. This… this alliance is no mere truce of convenience. It is armor, it is vigilance, it is hope. For the Earthrealm. For the souls lost to vengeance. I have come to you, Kuai, not as an enemy seeking to spill blood, but as a brother-in-arms against a darkness that knows no loyalty, no mercy… only hunger.”

He lowers his gaze, letting the cold wind twist through his hair, his lips pressing into a thin line, the memory of endless nights of fire and ice pressing lightly upon him. Yet where anger had once burned, there is now a tempered resolve. “Let the sigils speak to us as allies now. Let this fortress, your clan, our histories, bear witness - not to the end of another war, but to the beginning of a stand that neither the Netherrealm nor any shadow of the past shall break.”

And in that moment, amidst the silent shimmer of ice and the faint echo of snow against stone, Hanzo feels a rare ember of warmth in his chest - not as a softening of heart, but as a forge of purpose. Arctika was no longer a battlefield of hatred; it was the citadel from which Earthrealm might yet be saved. And standing beside Kuai Liang, he was ready to see it defended, together. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

[floral-flames--a]

                                      ~ 𝒮𝒽𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓂𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝑒𝓁𝓋𝑒𝓈 ~

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

                                   Ind. || Sel. || Multi- Muse || Loved by Bethany 

                                                 F. Canon and OC Muses

༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄༄

                             MUSES || REGULATIONS || TAGS || CREDITS 

[of-wisteriakisses]

                    ⟡ ݁₊ ˎˊ˗ Kiyama, Akari (清山 明里)  ---------- 

                                  The air tastes different here.

                    Not wrong—just… unfamiliar. Like a room you once knew by heart, rearranged while you were gone. Akari feels it the moment her boots touch stone: the subtle hum beneath the ground, the way the fire does not answer her call by instinct, the way the silence watches instead of listens. This is not her timeline. Not the one etched into her bones with frost and grief and names she learned to say softly in the dark.

                    Firelight blooms ahead. The herbalist slows, hand drifting—not to a weapon, but to the space over her heart, where instinct and memory twist together in quiet confusion. The Scorpion who stands before her is not the revenant carved from vengeance she remembers. Not the man held together by wrath and ghosts. This one stands straighter. Warmer. Alive in a way that unsettles her more than any blade ever could.

                    Kuai Liang.

                    The name arrives unbidden, a breath she doesn’t realize she’s holding until it escapes her lips. “So…” Akari's voice is soft, careful—like she’s afraid the wrong word might fracture the moment. “This is how the universe decided to rewrite you.”

                    Her gaze traces him openly, unashamed. The fire answers him, coils close without burning, obedient without fear. It recognizes him as kin, not as a curse. That alone makes her chest ache. You were never meant to carry hell alone, something in her thinks, sharp and tender all at once.

The woman takes a step closer. Then another. Not threatening. Not reverent. Just… present. “In my world,” Akari says quietly, “Fire was a punishment. A brand. Something taken, not chosen.” Her eyes lift to his, steady despite the tremor under her ribs. “Here… it looks like a calling.”

                    A faint, almost-smile ghosts her mouth—sad, fond, unresolved. “I don’t know what you remember of me. Or if you remember me at all.” A pause, weighted with the knowledge that timelines are cruel, that familiarity is not a promise. “But I wanted to meet you before the world decided who you had to be.”

                    The flames shift, reacting to the space between them, to the careful warmth in her tone. Akari exhales, grounding herself in the present—this Kuai Liang, this Scorpion, not the echoes she carried with her. “So,” the herbalist says again, softer now, invitation threaded through every syllable, “May I stand here a moment longer… and learn who you are?”

Plotted Starter ~ @floral-flames

[sasorikigai]

☀ (to hanzo from Kuai Liang)

• the way his discipline softens only for me There is a moment — small, almost imperceptible — when his shoulders lower by a breath’s width in my presence. As though he allows himself to exist, not as a weapon honed by vengeance, but as a man who has survived it. That surrender… that trust… I find it devastatingly beautiful.

• his voice when he speaks honestly Hanzo’s truth is never loud. It arrives like heat rising from embers, steady, unwavering. When he lets it slip — when he gives me the pieces of himself he guards from the world — I feel it echo in my ribs. It draws me in. It always has.

• the restraint in his hands Strong hands, precise hands, forged by fire and sorrow… yet he touches with such deliberate gentleness. As if he fears breaking what he wants to hold. That contrast is a gravity I cannot ignore.

• the way he stands in silence His silence is not emptiness — it is presence. Thoughtful. Grounded. I can feel him even when he says nothing. Especially then.

• his loyalty, fierce enough to be mistaken for stubbornness He carries devotion like others carry breath. To his clan. To his son. To what he believes is right. To those he loves. There is no half-measure in him. That kind of loyalty… it is rare. It is radiant.

• the grief he has not let consume him He has every reason to collapse under the weight of his past, yet he stands. He rises. He still chooses compassion over cruelty more often than the world deserves. I admire that strength more than he knows.

• the warmth beneath the fire When he lets me close — truly close — the flame does not burn. It warms. It steadies. It feels like coming home to something I never knew I missed.

If he ever asked me why I look at him the way I do… …I fear I would have to admit all of this.

And more.

send me ☀ if your muse finds mine attractive || @floral-flames || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥|| The fire does not know how to lie. It has always been this way with Hanzo Hasashi - truth burns through him whether he wills it or not, and in this moment, confronted with words that strip him bare more thoroughly than any blade ever could, he feels the heat rise beneath his skin like magma seeking surface. His chest tightens. His breath catches on something sharp and sacred.

Attractive. Such a simple word for the earthquake that moves through him.

He reads each confession as though it were scripture written in a language only his soul remembers.

The discipline that softens. The voice that carries truth like coals. The hands that have known only destruction learning the grammar of gentleness. Kuai Liang has seen him - truly seen him - in ways Hanzo did not know he was visible. In ways he did not believe he deserved to be witnessed.

There is a trembling in his fingers when he lowers the message, a fault line of vulnerability he cannot quite suppress. How does one respond to being known so completely? How does one stand steady when the very foundations of one's carefully constructed walls have been named, catalogued, cherished?

The Grandmaster of the Shirai Ryu has faced gods and demons. He has walked through Hell itself and returned. Yet this unmoors him in ways that combat never could. Because Kuai Liang does not speak of his strength or his skill or his fearsome reputation. He speaks of the softness. The surrender. The way grief has carved canyons through Hanzo's spirit but has not drained him dry. He speaks of warmth as though it were not weakness. As though it were something beautiful.

Hanzo closes his eyes and feels the ghost of that presence - that silence Kuai Liang describes - settling around him now like snow that does not melt upon flame. He thinks of ice-blue eyes that see past the inferno to the man who tends it. He thinks of how Kuai Liang stands in doorways sometimes, watching, waiting, never demanding but always there, patient as winter waiting for spring.

The warmth beneath the fire.

Yes. Yes, Kuai Liang would know that, wouldn't he? Because he has always been brave enough to reach through the flames.

The Cryomancer speaks of loyalty as though it were radiant, but Hanzo knows the truth of his own devotion - it is a blade with two edges, fierce and unforgiving and capable of cutting even those it means to protect. Yet Kuai Liang looks upon that intensity and does not flinch. He admires it. Calls it rare. Calls it something worth holding.

How can Hanzo explain that he looks at Kuai Liang and sees the opposite of everything he once was taught to hate? That where there was supposed to be an enemy, there is instead this: steady ground beneath uncertain feet, cool water for a throat parched by centuries of rage, peace in a shape he never thought to recognize?

Sub-Zero carries his own scars with such quiet dignity. Never asks for pity. Never weaponizes his suffering. He simply endures, and in that endurance, shows Hanzo that survival need not always wear the face of vengeance. That there are other ways to honor the dead. Other ways to be strong.

Hanzo's hands - those hands Kuai Liang describes with such devastating accuracy - clench and unclench. They remember. Gods, they remember. The careful way they have learned to touch without burning, to hold without destroying. They remember because he taught them. Because Kuai Liang met restraint with patience, met gentleness with grace, met fear with a courage that looked like trust.

The fire in Hanzo's chest shifts, reforms, becomes something molten and precious. Something that aches.

If Kuai Liang fears admitting why he looks at Hanzo the way he does, then Hanzo fears something infinitely more terrifying - that his answer might set them both ablaze, that his truth might be too raw, too consuming, too much. Because the Cryomancer speaks of warmth, but what Hanzo feels is an inferno of want and wonder and worship.

He attracts me, Hanzo thinks, the way the moon attracts the tide - with gravity, with inevitability, with a pull that rewrites the very rhythm of his existence.

The precision of his mind, sharp as the ice he commands, yet never cruel. The way sorrow has touched him without poisoning him. How he leads the Lin Kuei with honor when he could have chosen vengeance, could have become the monster their history demanded. The strength in his stillness. The power in his mercy. The way he stands between worlds - cold and warmth, duty and compassion, warrior and healer - and somehow remains whole.

Especially the way he sees Hanzo not as the specter of his past, but as the man of his present.

That above all else.

Hanzo's breath escapes him slowly, smoke curling from his lips even here, even now, as though his body cannot contain what his heart refuses to name. He thinks of blue and gold, ice and fire, frost and flame learning a dance no one said was possible.

He thinks; I would burn down the Netherrealm again for one more moment of your honesty. I would walk through every hell if it meant coming home to your warmth.

But how does one say such things? How does the fire speak of its need for snow without sounding like destruction?

The answer, Hanzo realizes, is simple. He speaks the way Kuai Liang did - with truth, no matter how it burns.

"If you ever asked me why I cannot look away," he would say, "I would tell you that you are every sunset I never let myself watch. Every moment of grace I thought I had forfeited. Every mercy I did not know I was still capable of receiving."

"You are the winter that does not wound. The cold that soothes rather than scars. You are proof that I am not only ash and ember, that there remains in me something worth your tenderness."

"And yes, I find you so devastatingly, impossibly, undeniably attractive that sometimes I forget how to breathe around you. That your discipline moves me. That your honor humbles me. That your trust feels like absolution I do not deserve but will spend lifetimes trying to earn."

"You say my loyalty is radiant. But you, Kuai Liang - you are the light by which I have learned to see myself as something more than the sum of my failures."

The phantom words settle in his chest, unspoken but no less true. Hanzo opens his eyes, amber burning bright, and somewhere beyond sight, beyond distance, he feels the tether between them pull taut - fire reaching for ice, ice reaching back.

He does not yet know how to give voice to this enormity.

But he will. For Kuai Liang, he will learn. The way he has learned so many impossible things already. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥||

[of-spiritss]

• “If you fall asleep on my shoulder, I won’t complain.” (from Bae Hanuel)

                           COUNTRY NIGHTS & COLD BEER || ACCEPTING  

                        It wasn't the initial comment that caught Yingling off guard, yet more so whom those words were coming from- someone from her past, one that was centuries ago when the world seemed to be more silent. However, even now the spirit healer was not opposed to it, even if the very thought of them scared her. Something the woman would never admit, not even to herself no matter what- so instead, Yingling managed a soft smile, eyes gazing towards the angel with some sort of intent behind them. A calmness one would say. 

                    "You won't complain until your arm starts to fall asleep, then you'll jolt me awake" she commented, fingers tapping her chin as if the woman was in thought. Though, didn't take long for her to simply chuckle at this, nod and ponder whether or not she should take up Bae Hanuel's offer. "But-" Yingling pauses, a defeated sigh to fall from her lips. "I would be more than happy to rest my head upon your shoulder, for now.. until the universe goes silent" 

[bai-cheng]

Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiicccccccccccccccccchhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnnnnnng! (from HIsoki)

"No, that's all I have to say to you. No, you don't get that right to randomly appear in my life again after all you have cause Hisoki. Not just to me, but this whole family you left behind. So, no" 

[sasorikigai]

@floral-flames continued from here (x)

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥|| Hanzo’s breath quavers like a flame strangled by wind, a fragile tether between realms. The venom still coils within him, a poison that eats through marrow and memory alike, searing his veins with D’Vorah’s cruelty. Each throb of his heart is a battlefield - fire against rot, will against oblivion. He feels the Netherrealm still upon his skin, its claws dragging at his spirit, its fury a ceaseless storm howling that he belongs to it, not here, not in Kuai Liang’s arms.

Yet there is Kuai Liang. Kuai, whose presence bends the storm with nothing more than a hand, a word, a steadying warmth pressed into Hanzo’s trembling palm. The contact jolts through him like the first thaw after winter - painful, exquisite, almost unbearable. His heart staggers in its cage, hammering against ribs with the fury of a beast desperate to be freed, but for the first time in so long, it beats for something. For him. For Kuai. His soul, however, remains a battlefield. Scorpion’s shadow coils around him, chains dragging across his marrow, whispering venomous truths; You are nothing but revenant. You are the pyre, not the man. This love will burn him as it has burned you. Hanzo feels himself split between the halves - the man who longs to collapse into Kuai’s arms, and the specter who sneers that he is undeserving of such grace.

He tries to answer. His lips part, the beginnings of a vow trembling on his tongue, words weighted with everything he has carried through death after death; that Kuai Liang is the tether he has searched for in every inferno, that no abyss could unmake what has already been carved into his soul. His throat strains, raw, desperate to release the promise before the void reclaims it.

But the abyss is patient, wickedly cruel. D’Vorah’s venom surges, black fire lancing through his spine, his vision fracturing into shards of incendiary flame and jagged ice. His knees buckle, his body folds under the tyranny of both poison and phantom. His heart clenches so violently he fears it will tear itself apart, pounding once, twice - then faltering, caught between life and unlife. His soul reaches outward, clawing to stay, but the Netherrealm tugs hard, furious at losing its prisoner.

The last sensation he knows is the grounding touch of Kuai’s hand, the scent of frost and steel piercing the smoke. He clings to it, with what little remains, as his body surrenders and darkness swallows him whole.

No vow is spoken. Only silence, heavy as ash, as Hanzo Hasashi slips into blackness - leaving his answer trapped within the cage of his heart. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥||